“I mean I know it's cold out here and not everybody has a sleeping bag. But when you grit your teeth and stick it out until dawn!”

“Not daring to flee since my general location has just been broadcast to any killer who cares. I mean, I know it's cold out here and not everybody has a sleeping bag.”

“What do you think?" I whisper to Peeta. "About the fire?" "I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine," he says through gritted teeth.”

“Peeta, how come I never know when you're having a nightmare?” I say.“I don't know. I don't think I cry out or thrash around or anything. I just come to, paralyzed with terror,” he says.“You should wake me,” I say, thinking about how I can interrupt his sleep two or three times on a bad night. About how long it can take to calm me down.“It's not necessary. My nightmares are usually about losing you,” he says. “I'm okay once I realize you're here.”

“I poke around in the pile, about to settle on some cod chowder, when Peeta holds out a can to me. “Here.”I take it, not knowing what to expect. The label reads LAMB STEW.”

“Living out here, I have found that many creatures would prefer not to fight. But if your first instinct is to reach for your sword, you will never discover that.”

“I pull the sleeping bag up to his chin and kiss his forehead, not for the audience, but for me. Because I'm so grateful that he's here, not dead by the stream as I'd thought. So glad I don't have to face Cato alone.”